


By Negatives

by Kaydel



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-08 00:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12852957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaydel/pseuds/Kaydel
Summary: Victory in Europe Day signals the return of something far more precious than peace for Collins.





	By Negatives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bold_seer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bold_seer/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide bold_seer! I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Thanks ever so much to parabolica for the lightning-fast beta. All further mistakes are my own. Historical notes are included at the end of the fic.

_It was by negatives I learnt my place._  
The Garden went on growing and I sensed  
A sudden breeze that blew across my face.  
Despair returned but now it danced, it danced.  
\- Elizabeth Jennings, The Resurrection 

_8 May, 1945_

Collins meets his ghost at 11:30 in the morning, just as the rest of Britain seems to be going mad with joy at the news that the war has finally ended. He has an absurd moment to think how odd it is, to have a phantom from the past simply get up from an easy chair and shake his hand and apologise for not writing, before his knees get weak and he very nearly collapses into the chair opposite.

Cool as ever — and Collins certainly remembers just how unruffled he can be, how smooth and suave he is, especially when he wants something — Farrier smiles at the waiter who brought Collins into the club. 

“Thank you, Geoffrey. That will be all. I suspect Mr Collins and I have some catching up to do. Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off like the other staff? I hear the King is going to make an address from the Palace. Might be something to tell the grandchildren about.”

The waiter sniffs and makes some offhand comment about not wanting to mix it with the masses of humanity currently streaming down every street in London towards Buckingham Palace, but Collins barely hears. His gaze is too fixed on the man opposite him. He still cannot quite get it into his head that the person sitting so close by is even real, half-expecting Farrier to disappear in a blinding flash of light and for himself to wake up with the air-raid sirens screaming in his ears. 

Hardly surprising when that has been most of his reality for the past five years. 

Christ, until today he told himself he could barely remember Farrier’s low, calm voice in his ear, telling him to be on the lookout for bandits at his six. And yet, as soon as he’d turned up to this exclusive club in St James, as soon as he’d seen the back of his head, he’d known who it was that sent the postcard two days ago with the picture of Ripon Cathedral on it with nothing more than the name and address of this club and a date and time to meet. There was no one else who would provoke such a reaction. His whole body seemed dragged towards Farrier, as though Collins was a sleepwalker, and Farrier some occult mesmerist. 

When the war had just broken out, they’d often joked about taking a 48-hour pass one glorious day, when there weren’t any patrols or paperwork or people to save, and taking a motorcar up the Great North Road. Farrier had acted the country gentleman and promised to take Collins to have a shufti at the great cathedral in Ripon, just so he’d have something to compare to St. Giles in Edinburgh, and Collins laughed at the audaciousness of the idea and had secretly hoped it would come to pass. That they’d have more time to enjoy each other’s company in private and have something more permanent than a quick fumble under the sheets after lights-out. But that had been before the almighty mess of Dynamo.

Now, as Geoffrey’s footsteps fade down the worn mahogany-lined hallway, Farrier turns to Collins. He looks almost exactly the same as he did that fateful afternoon, back in ‘40, when Collins still believed the war was still righteous. He’s thinner, though, and the shadows underneath his eyes look unhealthily close to purple, but his handshake is as steady as it ever was, and Collins is still drawn to those blue eyes, which are as clear and untroubled as a cloudless summer day. He is aware that he’s staring, but he can’t stop. For years he’s been fruitlessly trying to find out what had happened to Farrier after their battle with the enemy over the Channel. Every polite request for more information from higher authorities had led nowhere, and Collins baulked at writing to Farrier’s family, who were rumoured to be very well-connected members of the gentry and who would have started asking awkward questions nobody would want to answer. 

“So,” Farrier starts, after they’ve sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, “I suppose you’ll want some answers.”

He’s striving for casual, but Collins can still spot the slight tremble in Farrier’s fingers as he picks up a pen from the low table in between their chairs and fiddles with its cap. They’re the only ones in this morning room, with the slightly eerie paintings of illustrious past members looking down at them for company. Outside they can hear the noise of the street leaking in from behind the closed wooden shutters that block out the light from the windows, despite it being one of the club’s traditions that none of the members’ private conversations should be overheard by the unworthy. Well, the normal order of the world seems suspended for the time being, and Collins can’t find it in himself to object. He wants to lean over and cover Farrier’s fingers with his, but he stays still, too afraid that if he reaches out and touches him, Farrier will disappear.

“Aye,” Collins manages, after going through several variations of reply in his head, which run from hostile to hysterical. The train ride from the base at Benson to Paddington had taken over an hour, and he had spent most of that time sandwiched between two groups of excited young airmen on their way into town, trying to work out what he should say. “An explanation for what happened to you would be nice.”

Farrier glances at him, as though he suspects Collins of sarcasm. Collins is careful to keep his face carefully blank for this. Truth be told, it’s easier than he expects. He’s still not quite sure what kind of reaction he’d like to have to discovering his erstwhile flight leader and one-time lover has come back from the dead. After a beat Farrier looks away again and uncaps the pen. He presses his finger against the nib and draws a bead of thick, black ink.

“”S’not much to tell you about what happened. Not that would stand up to the telling, anyway. I ran out of fuel over Dunkirk and crashed my kite beyond the perimeter. Set the plane on fire so the enemy wouldn’t have her. Hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, Collins.” Here, Farrier pauses a moment, and Collins can recall the deep-seated grief he felt when he abandoned his Spitfire in the Channel. The plane had felt like a part of him, and losing it was akin to losing a limb. 

After a while, Farrier picks up a bottle of whisky on the table and pours them each a neat measure before continuing. “I ended up in one of those Oflags, near Dresden. Beastly things. I tried to escape first chance I got, but one of the team was shot just as we were crossing from the camp to the forest cover, and I stopped to help. They recaptured me pretty handily, since I was helping Jenkins limp along. He died not long after, and the Jerries rewarded me with a month in solitary. That was back in ‘41.”

“Christ,” Collins murmurs reflexively. He’d been back here, of course, trying to down the swarming Messerschmitts that seemed personally aggrieved by his continued existence. He remembers barely having time to smoke a fag between patrols, and having half his squadron decimated after one particularly brutal raid by the enemy. Those had been dark days, and the threat of letting Britain fall to the Nazis had driven them all to feats of bravery never thought possible in peacetime. Or, as Collins liked to put it more cynically, men were simply trying to stay alive. “So you’ve been in the Oflags all this while?”

He’s seen some of the photographs that have started to make their way back from Germany and Poland. Officers have apparently been spared the worst of the atrocities of the POW camps, but that is cold comfort to the shattered men who’ve only just begun to come back home. Collins feels the bitterness rise in his gut, the anger at the waste of life. This war has swallowed too many lives.

Farrier coughs and looks slightly guilty. “Not exactly. I managed to escape from my third camp in the winter of ‘43. A castle in Saxony, Colditz. You might have heard of it. Jerries used to say that the damn thing was escape-proof but a Dutch officer found a way out, thanks to some Kraut officer who couldn’t help showing off his local knowledge. I escaped with another lad, a good man from Amsterdam. Army captain. We stole some German uniforms and walked out of the castle. They thought we were as Teutonic as they were, more fool them.”

He has a swig of whisky while Collins just cradles his glass in his hands. It sounds like the recitation a school boy would give his history master, if he was asked to explain the significance of Caesar crossing the Rubicon. Just the facts, nothing else. Collins wonders how many times Farrier has told his account, and decides he doesn’t need to know.

“The rest of it was relatively uneventful. We bought train tickets to a city near the Swiss border and went on foot from there. Had to dodge a few patrols on the way; you can’t expect everything to be smooth sailing, can you. But we made it through. After we got into Switzerland, I found passage back to Blighty. That’s about the sum of it.”

That can’t be everything, Collins thinks. Farrier has a haunted look in his eyes as he recounts his story, and Collins wonders just how uneventful that border crossing could have been. He thinks of men running through thigh-deep snow, of being chased by dogs and guns firing at him in the darkness, and thinks he might have been better off facing down 109s. At least he’d had a fighting chance in his Spitfire.

After another interminable age, Farrier manages to look at Collins. His hands seem steadier now. “What about you, Collins? Last I saw, you were bailing out into the Channel. Next thing I hear, you’re being awarded a DFC. Seems you’ve had quite an eventful time yourself.”

Collins laughs, feeling self-conscious. “You haven’t heard what the DFC was for!”

“Yes, you’ll have to fill me in on those details.” Farrier leans closer and immediately Collins is overwhelmed by the memories conjured by Farrier’s cologne. They hadn’t had much time together, really. He’d met Farrier when he had been transferred to Uxbridge at the end of basic training. That had been six months before the outbreak of the war. They’d only managed one or two quick fumbles and stolen kisses outside their bunks before the war had pulled them apart. Collins has spent the last five years convincing himself it was desperation that drove them together, nothing more. That if Farrier had survived, he’d probably have a beautiful wife and five perfect children to come home to instead of wasting his time with a queer like Collins who pined after him like some silly teenage girl.

He closes his eyes briefly and takes a deep breath to slow his heart rate. Being in close proximity with a ghost would do that to anyone.

“You all right there, Collins?” Farrier looks as though he might reach out and touch him, and Collins braces himself. But Farrier merely leans forward and pours himself some more whisky and tops Collins’ tumbler up. “Come on, man. I want to hear everything.”

“I mean, it wasn’t for anything like shooting down an entire flight of 109s.” Collins hates talking about himself like this. It makes him deeply uncomfortable, being asked to show off. He’d only done his duty. He’s just been lucky enough to make it home each time, though there have been some near calls. “I - uh. I was seconded to Imagery Intelligence after the Battle of Britain. They liked the way I handled my debriefs. Something to do with the amount of detail I left in, and then some idiot decided to mention that I took up photography when I was at school. So I spent the rest of the war flying around taking photographs of enemy fortifications and positions instead of dropping bombs on them. And, er, I suppose they liked what I did well enough to give me the DFC.”

He makes it sound like it was an easy job. He doesn’t want to mention the near misses with ack-ack fire or enemy fighters swarming around his kite. The occasions when he was sure he was going to crash and die unmourned in some remote corner of Belgium, or how just how cold it could get sitting so far up above everything, with only cameras where his guns should be. The medal they pinned on his chest seems paltry recompense.

Farrier whistles quietly in admiration. “You were working with the SIS? That’s impressive, Collins. They must be doing something right.”

“I think you’ve got that the other way around there, but cheers,” Collins raises his glass and taps it against Farrier’s. They exchange small, wry smiles, as if to congratulate each other for managing to avoid showing off. Unbidden, a small spot of warmth blooms in Collins’ chest, and he tells himself that it’s just the alcohol talking. 

Something suddenly occurs to Collins. “Hang on, did you say you were back here in ‘43? What did you do for the rest of the time, then?”

Vaguely, he realises he should be angrier. Five whole years he’s wasted, trying to come to terms with Farrier’s death. He’d tried avoiding any more entanglements with his fellow airmen and any desire more complex than simply surviving one mission and getting a good night’s kip. He thought he was done with the hollow feeling in the middle of his chest each time he thought about Farrier, and the few moments of sweetness they had shared. Now, to hear that Farrier has been alive this whole time? Not just alive, but restored to freedom and back in Britain?

He knows he should be angry, but the overwhelming emotions Collins feels are confusion and relief. He’s not been a religious man, nor a very superstitious one, but right now he sends a quiet prayer of thanks to whatever deity might be listening for Farrier’s safe return.

“Well,” Farrier sniffs and rubs his nose and doesn’t get much further. He digs around in his pockets and produces a battered pipe that looks like it’s seen much better days. From a pocket in his jacket, he produces a pouch of tobacco, with which he proceeds to stuff his pipe. Collins helps him light his pipe after he’s used up five matches from the box on the table. Neither mention Farrier’s shaking hands. “Cheers, Collins. You’re a good lad.”

Farrier draws deep on the pipe and exhales a cloud of smoke through his nostrils before coughing and mumbling something about getting more. Eventually, however, the silence lengthens and, almost in irritation at his own reticence, Farrier waves a hand in the air. “Funny you should mention being seconded to the SIS. I was picked up by a chap I knew at Harrow when I got home. He was working for MI9 and thought I might be useful helping our boys escape from the Continent.” He coughs again and has another sip of whisky, his hands steadier this time. “Ahh. Damn good stuff they have here. Where was I? Well, the higher-ups thought I’d actually be more useful in deception work. Apparently I look like a right scoundrel when I’ve not had a good shave, so they thought I’d be a natural.”

Collins laughs at this, and after a fraught second or two, Farrier joins in, his laughter rich and deep. “What, you think it’s funny, do you?”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s just the thought of you being assigned to this sort of work based on how you look. If anyone’d seen you dressed up in your Sunday best…” He doesn’t finish, but they share a glance and Collins is alarmed to find himself flushing. It must be the stuffy morning room they’re in, he thinks. Damn these English and their propensity for shutting up the windows even when summer’s on the way. Farrier shifts in his seat, the palpable warmth of his body so close by almost unbearably nostalgic for Collins. 

“Nah, that’s all right. I suppose if I was the CO, I’d have picked myself. We were shipped off to the Middle East, and our mission, if you can credit it, was to spend a lot of time in local bars in Egypt feeding the enemy incorrect information about our troop movements.” Farrier sounds embarrassed, almost apologetic, as if what he’d done was something considerably less important than any other sort of war work. “They gave us paratrooper uniforms to dress up in, and we had to memorise whole reels of information and make it sound as though we were just casually giving major details of the planning away. It’s hard work, pretending to be that thick. I believe I’m owed some sort of certificate from RADA after all this.”

Collins has heard some stories about the deception units in the Middle East. He’d never thought Farrier would be involved, but that goes without saying. “You were doing important work out there, it’s nothing to sneer at.”

Farrier grunts and has another puff of his pipe. He looks off into the distance, deliberately not meeting Collins’ eyes this time. “I was in the desert playing around with dummy tanks while you were risking your life trying to get proper intelligence about the enemy. Don’t start —” he holds up a hand to forestall Collins’ protest, which is half out of his mouth. “I know, I know; I was contributing to the effort. I just wish it was in a more obvious way, though. Not this sneaking around.”

Pride, Collins supposes. Farrier was always the type to take charge of the rest of the men, a natural leader who had the charisma and loyalty of the men who served under him — and here Collins tries very hard not to think of the times he has _literally_ spent under Farrier — someone who did best in the chaos of a dogfight. Deception work would have seemed so much slower in comparison. Every action carefully planned down to the most minute of details, not too unlike a mission in the air, but devoid of the same spontaneous joy one found in air combat. 

“Ah, you’re just being bloody pig-headed and you know it. I used to tell myself the same thing, that reconnaissance wasn’t anything honourable compared to shooting down enemy planes. But then the photographs I took on an op were used to bomb a munitions factory just outside of Munich. The Germans didn’t get to use those bombs to kill my mates, so I thought that was a damn good outcome for an hour’s flight. Same thing with your deception work. If the enemy had any idea of our real battle order, we’d have been buggered in the Middle East, wouldn’t we? So, I won’t hear you try and feed me that shite that you’ve not being doing anything important. Try it on some other gullible bastard.”

Farrier smiles at this outburst. “God, I’ve missed you being so…”

“Self-righteous? Angry?” 

“I was going to say self-assured, Collins.” There’s an indulgent note in Farrier’s voice that Collins would find irritating under different circumstances, but the expression on Farrier’s face makes him unsure of himself, ironically enough. “Always so cool and collected under pressure, weren’t you? I remember the lads trying to outdrink you the first night you came down to the pub with us. They all thought you were an easy mark, didn’t they? But you were so calm. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you, serene as a bloody angel, with Watson and the rest of his lot on the ground.”

Collins laughs. Watson and his three friends had challenged him — him, a Scot! — to a whisky-drinking competition. They’d said it was his initiation to the squadron. It was hardly his fault that they had failed badly in the end, with all four paralytic and snoring on the sticky floor of the pub. He’d tried not to feel too smug as he stepped over their prone bodies and found Farrier standing in front of him, a wry smile on his lips and offering a hand to shake.

“Well done, lad. That’ll teach them to tease.”

They’d started talking that night. About everything and nothing. Where Collins came from, how Uxbridge compared (poorly) to life in the Scottish Borders. Farrier’s various illustrious (and scandalous) ancestors and his distaste for anything to do with them. And flying — somehow all their conversations always circled back to the air and planes and freedom. 

After the landlord had kicked them out of the pub and they had failed to move their squadron-mates, they’d stumbled back to base, where Farrier had pushed Collins down onto an abandoned field-bed in the stores ever so gently, and Collins had learnt the weight of him and memorised the feeling of Farrier’s skin under his fingers. He had desperately hoped the night would go on forever and savoured stretching out every precious second. Collins sneaked back to his lonely bunk just before dawn, and had never felt quite the same afterwards. He was careful not to let it show, and if Farrier noticed that he took a moment longer to reply after he’d asked a question, he said nothing. Instead, he’d curled his fingers around Collin’s thigh under the table whenever they went to the pub, or let his hand linger after a chummy pat on Collins’ shoulder. Secret gestures, which made Collins feel dazzled, as though he had flown too close to the sun.

He’ll make a damn fool of himself if he continues reminiscing. Collins swallows the last of his whisky and exhales shakily, making Farrier chuckle.

“Are you going to stop now?” he asks Collins. “When we’ve just started?”

“I should be in that parade,” Collins says heavily, with the solemnity of the very-nearly drunk. He nods at the shuttered window, where the jubilation outside has grown steadily louder. “To cheer with the rest of our lads and give thanks that we’ve won, whatever that means.”

“And if I wanted you to stay?” The question is so soft that Collins almost misses it. Farrier pulls at his pipe again, refusing to meet his eyes. “Surely you’ve asked yourself why I invited you here? Why I wanted to see you?”

“Well, I reckon it isn’t just because you wanted to ask how me mam was doing.” The flash of anger is surprising. Now, Collins feels the years of waiting and bitterness. The outrage that Farrier had been alive and more than capable of writing to him to stop the dark moments of despair and helplessness.

Farrier looks wounded. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”

“Five years.” Collins puts down his tumbler and squares it exactly with the side of the table. “Five fuckin’ years, and no word from you. You can’t expect me to leap for joy.”

Outside, several people try to sing a song in unison and end up sounding badly off-key. Something about Churchill and the King and Victory, and Collins is tempted to stick his head out of the window and tell everyone to kindly bugger off and be happy elsewhere.

“Don’t you think I wanted to? Christ —” Farrier slumps back in his seat, looking haggard. “I’ve been trying to write the same letter for three and a half years now. I wanted to tell you everything, believe me. But every other letter I sent got stuck at the censors. And the CO used to read all our outgoing mail, just to make sure there weren’t any leaks. After a while it just seemed…” He trails off and waves his pipe eloquently.

“Pointless?”

“Futile. It’s not like I could send you a postcard. ‘Hullo Collins, how’s life at Fighter Command? I’ve been making up unit badges and putting up silhouettes of armoured vehicles in the sun. At night I go to slightly dubious pubs in Alex and pretend to be drunk just so German spies will listen to all the gobbledegook I’ve had to memorise. Lots of sand everywhere, but I’m having a spiffing time, not being dead!’”

In spite of himself, Collins laughs. Farrier’s features sag in relief and he rubs a hand over his eyes. “They told me it was lucky my parents were dead, to spare the agony of not being able to write. The CO was absolutely paranoid about leaks. Said it wasn’t just the Nazis we were fighting against, it was the rest of the bleeding army intelligence section as well.”

Collins can’t even imagine what operating in such an oppressive environment would feel like. “Sounds awful.”

“Worse than flying a Tiger Moth upside down with the engine cut out. But the nights out on the town weren’t so bad. Least I got a few good drinks out of it.” Finally done with his pipe, Farrier tips the bowl out into an ashtray, apparently jolly again. “Look, I promised you lunch, and Geoffrey’s said he’ll lay on a proper Sunday roast. Not sure how likely that’ll be, what with all this rationing going on, but the man is a bloody magician with getting food. Shall we?”

It sounds casual, and Farrier puts his pipe away with steadier hands, but there’s a quiver in his lip and the tension in his neck is obvious. 

He could walk away now and be done with this whole sorry affair. Five years is enough time, he knows, to get over youthful intoxication and obsession. And he’s convinced himself more than once that he was finally, finally done with remembering the exact colour of Farrier’s eyes and the firm certainty of the weight of his body over Collins’ own. That he could go back to civvy street without any of the nasty issues that seem to dog other men. Except he’s just met his ghost from the past, and what does one do after finding out that the dead have been resurrected?

“Yeah, ‘course. You owe me a proper meal after dragging me out all the way out from Reading this morning. It wasn’t half hard getting a ticket. I nearly got trampled at the bloody station. Everyone’s so excited about the war being over they just forget their manners, so I’ll be wanting recompense for all the trouble you’ve put me through.”

Collins chooses not to mention that he’d been just as giddy with relief as the news of the enemy’s defeat kept rolling in. That it was hard to do his duty and send the pilots in his squadron out on their reconnaissance missions when everyone was glued to the wireless waiting for the eventual capitulation. After all these years of waiting for life to begin again, the end had felt surreal.

“You make an excellent point. Let’s away.” Farrier stands up, groaning slightly as he does so. It makes Collins uncomfortable to watch; the Farrier he’d known was always so full of vigour. This older version seems to still be struggling with simple everyday rituals, as if Farrier has forgotten the script that he’d been following for most of his life. The Farrier he’d known had seemed immortal. This one reminds him of his own mortality and makes him scared of losing Farrier all over again.

There is a brief moment when Collins thinks Farrier might sit back down, but the other man grunts and smooths down his jacket, his hand already waving away Collins’ offers of help. In contrast to Collins’ smart blues, he’s wearing civilian clothes, which are faded and ill-fitting. 

“I haven’t slept well for the past few days,” he confesses, having the grace to look slightly ashamed. He yawns expansively. “Had - had to get on the last ship out of Alex and get here as fast as I could, otherwise I’d have been stuck there for months on end. Nearly didn’t make it across the Med in time. Plus, you wouldn’t believe the absolute farce at the docks. No taxis for love or money to St. James. Not with everyone rushing to celebrate. I walked most of the way here. Collapsed in Geoffrey’s arms, actually. I had to stop him running for the doctors in Harley Street.”

Collins wants to throttle him. 

“What on earth for, you dozy bastard?”

Farrier coughs again and won’t meet his eyes. “I wanted to see if there was anything worth salvaging.”

Before Collins can reply, a party of drunk, middle-aged men too old to have been in service burst in through the door. They’re talking about dinners at the Ritz and women they’d like to bring with them. Their little oasis of calm has been overrun. Frustrated, Collins follows Farrier through the door, heedless of the lewd remarks that follow him. 

***  


Farrier’s rooms are just as elegantly shabby as the rest of the club, the walls exquisitely lined in walnut badly in need of a polish and the expensive carpet bare in places. He lets Collins in with a muttered apology about the untidiness of the room and makes excuses about having just got back to London and living out of his suitcase.

“But you managed to find out where I was,” Collins observes quietly, and this stops Farrier’s attempts at small-talk.

Farrier lets out a breath and shrugs off his jacket before waving Collins into the room. It turns out to be a study, where two plates piled high with food are waiting on a desk cluttered with newspapers and books, half of which have been moved to the floor to make more room. “I still have a few good friends left in London and I called in quite a lot of favours. It wasn’t easy, you know. All I had was your citation in the Gazette to go on, and MI6 isn’t exactly forthcoming with non-essential requests for personnel information.”

“And you did all this on the off-chance that…?” Collins looks at the food. There’s roast beef and Yorkshire pud and a few stringy-looking French beans. He’s been dreaming of meals like this for months and had to make do with whatever slop they served in the mess. “I — Farrier. William. This must have cost you a fortune.”

“Ha. A damn sight more than it used to, that’s for sure.” Farrier smiles. “Sit down. Eat. I think I’ve a good bottle of claret somewhere that’ll go nicely with the beef, but as you can see, this place is an utter tip.”

Collins cannot move his feet. His mind, so used to working out the patterns of enemy fortifications, of considering angles of elevation and focus points, of coming up with ideas for what the enemy might be planning, cannot for the life of him work this out. It’s as though he has flown into thick cloud with his navigation instruments unresponsive. “What’s all this in aid of?”

Farrier’s laugh is incredulous. “What do you think, you daft sod?” He’s turned around and started digging in the piles of debris that constitute his belongings. Then he realises that Collins hasn’t moved and stands up straight, suddenly attentive. Collins can see his old flight leader then, the wariness and the alert eyes, ready for the next attack.

“I don’t… I mean. Christ. I _needed_ to see you again, Allister. Five years without knowing what had happened to you, without being able to write? I used to read all the dispatches that came through and go through all the lists of the lost, just hoping your name wasn’t there.” As if to steady himself, Farrier grabs the edge of the desk. “Then I saw your commendation, and this wretched war was finally coming to an end. And I had to know.”

“Know what?”

“Whether there was anything here still worth coming back for.” 

It feels as if there is a vice around Collins’ throat and he has to look down, down at the Persian carpet with its intricate swirling patterns which are far safer than the look in William Farrier’s eyes. 

Farrier is still speaking. “I know it might not be the same for you, Collins. You’ve probably forgotten… It’s been so long, after all. You probably think I’m too worn out and decrepit. And what we shared, it probably didn’t seem like anything to wait the whole war for. Which is… well, it’s understandable. You need someone younger. Maybe you should find a good woman, get married. Have lots of children. Start anew.” 

“Stop.” Collins reaches out and grasps Farrier’s arm. He’s still as solidly built as Collins remembers, still able to send the same rolling waves of yearning through his body. “For Christ’s sake.”

For a long, agonising moment, neither of them can find the words to continue.

Then, Collins says very carefully, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

They surge towards each other, Farrier’s hands gripping the lapels of Collins’ best uniform blazer, pulling him close. The kiss is desperate, hungry. Collins frames Farrier’s face with his fingers, trying to regain some control, to slow down and savour the moment. Farrier growls low in his throat, frustrated, but allows this. They lick out the taste of each other, teeth pulling at lips, tongues wet and sliding together. Collins is vaguely aware of the necessity of breathing, but cannot — will not — pull himself away from this. The missing years seem to coalesce; everything feels so achingly familiar, and yet he feels the ridges of Farrier’s ribs, the tough leanness of his body, and knows there are secrets about this new Farrier that are still undiscovered. He still tastes the same, though. That flavour of tobacco and whisky and something uniquely _Farrier_.

Eventually, painfully, they break apart. Farrier keeps Collins’ tie wound around one hand so their foreheads are pressed together, and sighs softly. His eyes are still closed.

“Would you believe me if I told you I’ve been thinking about that for nearly all the time I’ve been away?”

Collins snorts. “Don’t be dramatic. I bet you had birds hanging off your arm in Alex. Bet you had a lot of boys as well.”

Farrier does not deny this. “Less boys than you’d think. And the women generally knew to steer clear of me. Didn’t help that they lost interest after they found out I wasn’t as seedy as they’d like. What about you, huh? I’m sure you didn’t do too badly either.”

“Nah, no, I didn’t want to get too involved while the war was still on. There was a nurse my da wanted me to talk to when I was home for Christmas last year, but she was a smart lass and went for me cousin instead. They’re to be married in the autumn.” 

“So there wasn’t anyone else?” Farrier sounds incredulous. “I was sure after I sent that postcard that you’d write and tell me you were married and expecting your firstborn by now.”

Collins pulls himself free of Farrier’s grip, smiling at the similarity of their imaginings. “Aye. Didn’t seem worth the hassle. Not after Dunkirk.”

Farrier seems stunned into silence. He walks over to the large window that overlooks St. James’ Square and opens it. They’re up high, but the noise of the crowd still reaches them, though it seems farther away. A fresh gust of air rolls in, stirring up the papers on the desk. He turns back and looks at Collins, his eyes wide and his carefully parted hair blown about by the wind, hands patting his pocket, probably looking for his pipe.

“Not after — You’ll forgive me if I’m a little slow. I — do you mean…?”

Collins looks around the room. He can see the bedroom through a connecting door and glimpses an unmade bed. It looks large enough for both of them. “You’re a clever fellow, Farrier. You can work it out.”

He takes his time about it. Farrier laughs once, disbelieving, then covers his mouth and rubs his fingers along the sides. “Bugger me.”

“Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather go to bed for that. You’re not that young and the desk would hurt your back something wicked.”

“See, I know you’re joking now, but you shouldn’t say things like that to a man like me.” Farrier wags a finger in Collins’ direction. “Not after kissing me like that. And you say you didn’t see much action since I’ve been gone. Bloody hell.”

“I’m not joking, you pillock.” With a sigh, Collins moves to the window. They look out onto the square and at the delirious masses beneath. Some have wireless sets and have tuned in to wait for Churchill’s big speech. Collins has had enough of listening to rousing talks. He turns away and touches Farrier’s arm and feels the weight of those pale blue eyes on him.

“Look, William. I’ve not taken up with anyone else, not seriously. That’s the truth of it. It didn’t seem fair to get involved with all of that again. Not after what happened with you. I was worried sick when you didn’t report back to base. After you didn’t turn up at all, I thought, that’s it. You’d gone and bought it, and I… It wasn’t easy, all right? Don’t you think I wanted some kind of sweetheart waiting for me after all those ops? Would’ve made the damn time pass a lot more quickly. But you were gone.” He shakes his head. “I told myself to try and forget you. You’re supposed to do that. It’s what all the books say. Carry on with your life, it’s what they would’ve wanted. Duty above self. Bollocks.”

“So, what do you want?” Farrier asks hoarsely, not looking away. He looks so uncertain, and Collins almost wants to laugh at how absurd the expression looks on his face. But he does not. Instead he touches his hand to Farrier’s face again, brushes his thumb against the five o’clock shadow on Farrier’s face. “What happens now?”

“I want you to take me into that room,” Collins nods in the direction of the bedroom, “close the door, and kindly make up for all that lost time you keep whinging about. Those people outside are celebrating. I’d like to do the same.”

He says it with bravado, but he’s just as nervous as Farrier looks. His heartbeat sounds unnaturally loud in his ears. Just like the moment when the flight formation breaks and engages individual targets. Collins takes a breath and waits for the point of impact.

It takes the barest second for Farrier to parse what Collins is saying. Then, before Collins understands what is happening, he’s being dragged to Farrier’s bedroom where he’s pushed up hard against a wall and Farrier is kissing the air out of him. His carefully pressed uniform jacket is roughly unbuttoned and thrown on the floor.

“Watch it! Farrier, you complete savage, these are my best blues!”

Farrier groans, makes a comment about deserts and drowning, but allows Collins to strip himself and lay his clothes out neatly on a nearby chair. Then he swears in surprise as Collins presses him down onto the bed and groans as Collins begins to strip him, nearly tearing his trousers in his haste to help Collins get them off. Collins kisses him, pinning him in place with his hips and hands, revelling in the headiness of having Farrier solid and alive and underneath him. 

The only noises they make for a long time are incoherent exclamations. A half-whispered prayer by Farrier as Collins lays down sharp, biting kisses like tracer fire along the length of his body. Farrier’s name repeated by Collins deliriously like some sort of mantra as they move together, slick and fast and hot. Farrier’s appreciative murmurs as Collins rides him slowly, and then later his soft encouragement as Collins writhes under his sure, deft fingers, and comes apart in his arms.

Collins tries to memorise everything again. The way the sunlight picks out the golden highlights in Farrier’s hair. The pleasing contrast of their skin against each other’s; Farrier’s vibrant and bronze where his is cold and pale. He sweeps his hands across the broad swathe of Farrier’s back as Farrier drives into him, leaves marks on that beloved body he thought was lost. Tightens his fingers in Farrier’s hair and allows his screams to be swallowed up by Farrier’s lips. He has to remember this, all of this.

“No, hey. Hey. Stay here, with me.” Farrier gasps, as they try and catch their breath. He touches Collins’ temple, brushes a strand of hair off his forehead. “You’re too much in the past, love. I can see it in your eyes. Just — just stay with me now. I’m back, I promise. I’m sorry, all right? I’m not leaving. Not leaving.”

Collins doesn’t say anything. He kisses Farrier instead, and feels the serene rightness of it deep in the very marrow of his bones, finally realising with certainty that peace has arrived.

When they finally manage to leave the bed, they listen to Churchill announcing victory in Europe, and Collins watches the clouds swim across the endlessly blue sky overhead and hears the crowd cheering wildly below. They finish the lunch, which has long gone cold, but tastes better than any meal Collins can ever remember eating. 

His ghost hands him a glass of whisky and a fag as they make plans for the glorious, unknowable future. Their fingers brush, and Farrier’s smile feels like the warmth of the sun on Collins’ skin as he flies off into the void.

**Author's Note:**

> Collins' squadron at RAF Benson is based on 542 Squadron, which you can read about [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/No._542_Squadron_RAF). They were involved in aerial reconnaissance missions and flew modified Spitfires which had no guns (because that's where the cameras were positioned). These had heaters for the cameras, not the pilots. His DFC was based on the citation for a Flight Lieutenant's I found in the London Gazette.
> 
> Farrier's escape from Colditz was based on Lieutenant Airey Neave's report of his own escape, which you can read [here](https://www.arcre.com/mi9/neave). There's a lot of wonderful historical detail if you're a geek like me. Farrier's intelligence work was part of ['A' Force](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MI9#.27A.27_Force), in particular [Operation Cascade](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Cascade).
> 
> Any of the clubs in St James could be the club described in the fic, but I was mainly thinking of The East India Club.
> 
> Cheers to parabolica for helping me find out how long it would've taken to get from Reading to Paddington. Hopefully I'll work it more about World War II era trains into any future fic I write! <33


End file.
